Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  “I think we should have the footmen back,” Oliver advised, casting a nervous eye at me. “We won’t be able to handle him alone, he’s far too angry for reason.”

  “He’ll not be difficult for me once I’m inside.”

  “That’s a proper lion’s den in there and I must remind you that your name’s Jonathan, not Daniel.”

  “And I must remind you that I have a bit more than just my faith to protect me in this instance.”

  “From the sound of things, you’ll need it.”

  Ridley roared and smashed whatever weapon he’d found upon the door, causing it to rattle alarmingly. I hoped that his improvised club was not made of wood. For reasons unknown to me, wood presents a rare difficulty to my person when brought to bear with violence, and to it was I as susceptible to bodily harm as any ordinary man; I’d have to take care not to allow Ridley the least opening against me.

  Easier said than done, Johnny-boy, I thought, steeling myself to enter.

  More out of trepidation of what was to come and to put it off just a bit longer than out of concern for Oliver, I paused to make an inquiry of him.

  “You know what to expect, don’t you?”

  The commotion had Oliver visibly distracted. “I expect he’ll pulverize you to jelly, then come after me.”

  “He won’t be able to. I meant if you remembered what I was going to do to get inside.”

  “Oh, that,” he said with a reawakening of enthusiasm. “Yes, you’ve mentioned it, but I’m not so sure I’ve quite taken it in.”

  “I’ve never had cause before to demonstrate it for you. You’re not going to swoon or do anything silly, are you?”

  “For God’s sake, how bad can it be?”

  “It’s not bad, but something of a surprise if one is unprepared.”

  “My dear old lad, need I remind you that my medical studies have prepared me for all sorts of shocks. I should be able to manage well enough. Once one’s witnessed a few amputations there’s little enough the world can do to shake one’s calm. Nothing like seeing a man getting his leg sawed off for putting you in a proper mood to count your blessings and to ignore most troubles life has to fling at you.” As if to give lie to his statement, Oliver jumped somewhat at Ridley’s next fit of hammering.

  “Steady on, Coz.” I found myself near to smiling at his discomfiture and wondered if he was playing the ass on purpose to lighten things. Perhaps so, for beneath his outward display he was a most perceptive sort and by now had to be aware of my reluctance to proceed. As a physician, he was eager to study my condition, and I’d shared what little I knew about it. I had not informed him of the potential danger to Ridley if I failed to keep my strong emotions curbed. A hearty hatred for the man was in my heart, and some of the threats he made toward us were of the sort I would delight to visit upon him.

  Oliver scowled, jerking his head in the direction of the clamor. “Well, get on with it before he has the whole house down. Do what you must, just promise you’ll come out in one piece.”

  “I promise.” And with those words, I picked up one of the lighted candles left behind by the footmen and vanished.

  Oliver emitted a sort of suppressed yelp, but held his ground as far as I could determine without benefit of sight. My hearing was impaired while in this bodiless state, but I could sense his presence just in front of me—or what had been my front but a moment before. Now I floated, held in place by thought alone, and by that means did I propel myself to one side, find the crack between the cellar bricks and the wooden door, and sweep down and through to become solid once more in the little room beyond.

  I say little, for in comparison Thomas Ridley seemed to fill the whole of its space. I was a tall man, but he was that much taller, possessing a large, fit body heavy with muscles and full charged with anger. The remains of some bandaging circled his head; he’d suffered injury last night and taken a shallow but colorful wound. It had probably opened again because of his exertions; the blood had soaked through, and I instantly picked up the scent. His right arm had been in a sling the last time I’d seen him. The sling was gone now and his arm hung slack at his side. He still had much energy in him, for he slammed at the door again using his good arm and called us cowards and damned us thrice over. His back was to me when I caused myself to reappear.

  The candle I held yet burned, and its sudden radiance drew his instant attention upon me. He whirled, one hand raised and clutching what had once been a table leg and the other shading his eyes from the brightness of the flame. We’d left him in the dark for the whole of the day lest he work some damage by having fire, and so my tiny light must have been blinding to him. Despite this, he was game for a fight, and without warning threw his improvised club at me with a guttural snarl. I wasted no time vanishing again, an action that plunged his room into total darkness once more since I still held the candle.

  He must have been so lost to his emotions that it made little or no impression that I’d appeared from nowhere and instantly departed in the same manner. I’d held some hope that the surprise alone might slow him enough for me to soothe him to quiescence, but was forced to abandon it as he charged the spot where I’d been standing and tried to grab hold of me. I felt his arms passing this way and that through my invisible and incorporeal body. He, I knew, would feel nothing but an unnatural coldness in that apparently empty spot.

  Now he blundered about trying to find me, cursing like a dozen sailors.

  “Jonathan?” Oliver called out in a worried voice.

  I could not answer in this form, nor could I count on him to be especially patient. We were as close as brothers, and his concern for me would soon cause him to fetch the footmen and come to my rescue. Even with the odds at seven to one Ridley would probably break some heads before being subdued.

  I didn’t care for that prospect one whit. When Ridley had crossed again to the door in his blind search, I allowed myself to assume a degree of visibility, but not solidity. He saw the candlelight immediately as before, but this time it was pale and watery, the brass holder in the hand of a ghost, not a man. This was so startling that he finally paused long enough to take in a good view of me. I was fairly transparent yet; doubtless he could see right through me to the chill brick wall at my back, an alarming effect that more than served to gain the time I desired. In the space of a moment Ridley went from a man who looked just short of bursting a blood vessel from sheer fury to a man frozen fast with profound astonishment.

  It was as close as I’d be able to come to a favorable condition for what needed to be accomplished. Quick as thought, I assumed full solidity, fixed my gaze unbreakably onto his, and told him to be still. Perhaps fed by my own heightened emotions, my order must have had more force in it than was necessary, for he seemed to turn to cold marble right then and there. An abrupt twinge of dismay shot through me, and for an instant I thought I might have killed him, but this eased when my sharp ears detected the steady thunder of his heartbeat. I sagged from the relief.

  “Jonathan?”

  “I’m fine,” I said loudly so Oliver could hear through the slab of oak. “It’s safe now. You may unlock the door.”

  “Er . . . you’re sure about that? He’s not got a knife at your throat or anything?”

  “All’s well, Coz, now get on with it, he’s not growing any more pleasant to look at.”

  I heard the clink and rattle of brass, and the barrier between us swung hesitantly open. Oliver, his lanky frame blocking the lighted candles behind him, stood braced for trouble with a charged dueler in his hand.

  “Where on earth did you get that?” I asked, staring.

  “F-from my coat pocket, where d’ye think?”

  “You won’t need it; Ridley’s asleep on his feet, as you can see.” Oliver narrowly examined my quarry, then reluctantly put the pistol away. “He’s under your ‘influence,’ then?”

  “Fo
r the moment.”

  His gaze alternated between my face and Ridley’s. “First you’re there and then you’re not, and now this, the great ugly lion tamed. You should have a conjuring show. It’s just too uncanny.”

  “I quite agree,” I said dryly.

  “Something wrong?”

  “I’m tired and want to have done with this.”

  And more than that I wanted to feed again. Though outwardly I’d recovered in full from the murderous attack Ridley and Arthur had made upon me the previous evening, I was still mending within. My vanishings just now depleted my strength more than I cared to think about; my very bones felt hollow.

  Perhaps Oliver realized something of this. He stood aside allowing me room to guide Ridley out to sit at the table where the footmen had recently taken their supper. I sat opposite him, checked on the number of lighted candles, and decided there was enough illumination for me to work by. The single one I’d used in the cell would have been insufficient for the sort of meticulous project I was about to attempt.

  Finally settled—as well as unable to think of further delays—I began the dangerous process of rearranging another man’s soul.

  After his initial question Oliver was content to leave me undisturbed as I cautiously worked. Whenever I had to pause and think on what to say next, I’d steal a glance at my cousin and find him watching with rapt attention. Since first learning of them he’d been highly curious about all my unnatural talents; I hoped this demonstration would content him, since I wanted it to be the last I’d ever need to make. I had no liking for forcing my influence upon another and took such a liberty with people only when commanded by dire necessity. At the worst it was a terrible and sometimes hazardous intrusion upon another and at the least even a short encounter always gave me a god-awful headache. This one would be an agony before the finish.

  But for all our sakes and his, Ridley needed to forget certain events, as well as remember to abide by a new pattern of behavior in the future. Though presently under my control, he was as hearty in mind as in body, and I found it a difficult and exhausting task. I not only had to constantly maintain my hold against his strength of will, but labored hard to keep my own perilous emotions in check lest I cause him a permanent injury of mind.

  You’re not to pick any more duels, Ridley, do you understand that? It’s past time that you assume more peaceful pursuits than harassing honest citizens. No more violence for you, my lad.

  Light enough words, but it was the force I put behind them that counted. He blinked and winced a few times, a warning to me to ease off. I did, but damnation to the man. Because of him I’d come so close to dying . . . again.

  You know well enough how to cause trouble, so you must certainly know how to avoid it, and that’s exactly what you’ll be doing from now on. If I hear about you being in any more rows . . . well, you just behave yourself or I’ll know the reason why.

  Well, that was the limit; I’d run out of things to tell Ridley, which were instructions I’d already given to Arthur but requiring much less of an exertion. I leaned back in my own chair to pinch the bridge of my nose and release a small groan of sincere relief that it was finally finished. Ridley remained seated, and though his eyes were open he was deeply asleep, my last instruction to him.

  “Now you’re the one who looks like a dead fish,” observed my good cousin.

  “Then serve me up with some sauce. I’m ready to be carried out on a platter after all this.”

  Oliver pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. “No fever, but it’s clammy down here, so I can’t be sure.”

  “I’m not feverish, only worn down. A little rest and some additional refreshment and I’ll be my own self again.”

  “Which is something more than amazing from what you’ve told me about your adventure.”

  “Less adventure than ordeal,” I grumbled, rubbing my arm. Arthur had nearly severed it with his sword last night, and though muscle and sinew were knitted up again with hardly a scar to show for the injury, it still wanted to ache. Another visit to the Fonteyn stables might ease things.

  “And I want to hear the full story of it, if you would be so kind. Elizabeth’s only been able to repeat the high points you’d given her.”

  But I’d told my sister all that there was to tell and said as much now to Oliver.

  “That’s not the same as hearing from the source. Besides, I’m full of questions that she was unable to answer.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’ll ask ’em as they occur to me, so expect to be interrupted. For the moment, all I want to know is what do we do with Mr. Ridley here?”

  Our guest was still blank-eyed and slack-jawed. Perhaps the experience was tiring to him as well. One could but hope. “Take him upstairs and put him with his cousin, then pack the two of ’em off as soon as Arthur’s ready to travel.”

  “Tomorrow morning, whether he’s ready or not.”

  That suited me well. Wearily I stood and told Ridley to do the same and follow us out of the cellar and upstairs. He did so, as docile as a sheep. Oliver, leading the way with the one candle we’d not extinguished and left behind, cast a worried look back at our charge.

  “We’ll not have any more trouble with him? You’re sure?”

  “Quite sure.” At least for the present. Ridley and Arthur would behave themselves for a time, but past experience told me that even the most firm suggestions would eventually erode away and be forgotten. I’d have to make a point of visiting them from time to time to strengthen what had been constructed in their minds tonight. My hope was they would eventually embrace my compelled guidance as their own desire and no longer need of my influence to keep out of trouble.

  “Seems unnatural, that,” Oliver muttered.

  “I readily agree.”

  “It also doesn’t seem . . . well, enough, somehow.”

  “In what way?”

  “After all that he’s done and tried to do, just to tell him to run along and sin no more hardly seems fitting. He should be hanged.”

  “Did Edmond not explain to you how unlikely an occurrence that would be?”

  “In rare detail if nothing else about this business. He also said the scandal would be bad for the family, though I’m getting to the point where I think a scandal would do the lot of ’em a world of good.”

  “I agree with you, except for how it would involve and affect us. I am content to put it behind me and get on to more rewarding pursuits.”

  “Damn, but you almost sound like Edmond.”

  “I suppose I must. After all, think how much we have in common.” I meant it as a light jest, but it didn’t come out right. Oliver looked back again, eyebrows high with shock. “I’m sorry, Coz. That was vulgar of me.”

  “Think nothing of it. You’ve been ill-used of late and had a hard time of things.”

  Wasn’t that the grand understatement? And not just for last night but for the last year or so of my life. Oliver’s sympathy coupled with his kind dismissal of my poor manners crushed me down as much as the weight of recent events seemed to be doing. My death, my return to life, my search for the woman who had made such a miracle possible, all pressed close, crowding out other thoughts in my brain for the next few moments. So thoroughly did they occupy me that I was genuinely surprised to find myself in the central hall of Fonteyn House with no recollection of how we’d gotten there.

  “Now what?” asked Oliver, setting his candle on a table.

  As an answer, I looked hard at Ridley until I was certain I had his full attention. “You are a guest of Fonteyn House and will conduct yourself in a gentle and honorable manner. The servants will see to your needs, and don’t forget to give them a decent vale when you leave tomorrow morning.”

  Ridley responded with a slight nod of acknowledgment, and I cocked an eyebrow at Oliver. He regarded each of us with no small of wond
er.

  “He can stay the night in Arthur’s room,” I said.

  Taking the suggestion, Oliver called for a servant. One of the household’s larger footmen appeared, stopping short in his tracks to give Ridley first a surprised, then wary look. He’d apparently heard tales from the men who had been on duty in the cellar. Of course, Ridley’s appearance might have had something to do with it, what with the bandaging, blood, and damage his clothes had taken from last night’s fight and this day’s incarceration. Add to that his abnormal calmness of manner and you had the makings of what promised to be very animated below-stairs gossip.

  “Show Mr. Ridley here to his cousin’s room,” Oliver instructed the man as though nothing was or had ever been amiss. “He’ll take his supper there, and see that he’s cleaned up and has all he needs to stay the night. And be sure to have someone fetch along a large brandy for me to the blue drawing room.”

  The fellow looked ready to offer a few dozen questions, but was too well trained to make the attempt. Oliver’s recently deceased mother, the imperious mistress of Fonteyn House, had not been one to encourage familiarity between servants and their betters, and her influence lingered fresh. The footman bowed and cautiously invited Ridley to follow him upstairs. Our prisoner, now our guest, went along as nice as you please without a single glance at us. Oliver breathed out a pent up sigh and let his shoulders sag. He exchanged a quick look with me; I gave him a short nod meant to reassure him that all was well and would remain so.

  We watched until they reached the upper hall and turned into one of the rooms off the stairs where Arthur Tyne had been placed. More heavily concussed than Ridley and missing a goodly quantity of blood, he was slower to recover from his injuries. Bed rest and broth flavored with laudanum had been prescribed and administered, and he’d slept the day away under the watchful eye of one of the maids. The girl, her duties no longer required, soon emerged in the company of the footman and both quickly crossed our line of view to take the back way down to the kitchens. They were doubtless in a great hurry to carry the latest startling developments to the rest of the servants.